Wimpy Cons 'Em Again
by popeyerules
Summary: An average Wimpy story, perfectly ordinary and standard.


Note: This story is set in the E.C. Segar Comic Strip universe, not the Max Fleischer Cartoon Universe. The cartoons are non-canonical garbage and pale in comparison to the hilarious, relevant, interesting comic strips.

It was an average week at Rough House's cafe. Bill Squid was in the back room, explaining to some customers that they could win a game of 3 card Monte if they kept their eyes on the King. Two brawny sailors, both with ample musculature and chins that Popeye loved to touch, sat at the counter downing whiskey. Neither dared to cross Popeye. The last time they had crossed Popeye, they had ended up at the hospital for two weeks. Popeye was his usual good natured self, sitting behind the counter, pipe in hand, arf arfing and blow me downing, recalling a boating accident he had experienced two years prior. Rough House nodded in agreement as he wiped the dishes clean of spittle. All was well and good- until Wimpy entered the place, looking nonchalant as ever, with his black overcoat and brown derby hat.

Shuffling between tables, he edged ever closer to his prey. Popeye stopped telling his story and watched with amusement, wondering what Wimpy was going to try today, if anything. You never could be sure about him. Roughhouse pretended not to notice and continued wiping his dishes, but looked at Wimpy with an accusative glare while he did this, as if to remind Wimpy of the countless hundreds of dollars that Wimpy still owed him from conning so many hamburgers. Rough House told himself that if Wimpy ever did obtain some money, somehow, he was going to milk that sucker for every penny he had until his debt was paid in full. Wimpy smiled his usual phony smile and chuckled a bit. His eyes were still closed off, betraying no emotion and no intent.

"Well, well," he said. "I see that the usual gang is all here. Has anybody set 'em up? Shake my hand- I want to start my wristwatch." Nothing too out of the ordinary yet, this was only Wimpy's usual patter. Rough House was so sick of it, though. When was Wimpy going to stop? When Hell froze over? Wimpy was now standing within about three feet of Popeye's stool, his gluttonous stomach filled with the remainders of wrongfully obtained beef patties. he slapped Popeye on the back and emitted a hearty chuckle. "How are we today, old pal of mine? Looking as good as ever. You've been going strong on the spinach, I see. Good for you." He turned towards Rough House now, his eyes closed and not revealing anything. The perfect poker face. "Ah, Rough House? You look ravishing, Good Fellow! Say, has anybody set 'em up while I was absent?" Rough House did not answer and continued polishing dishes.

He was moving in for the kill now, Rough House knew, and he was going to get that hamburger any way he possibly could. He remained silent and stiff, an entrepreneur who had tired of what he did a long time ago.

Over on an adjacent table, Geezil looked up from his oxtail soup and was overcome by a violent fit of rage. "BAH," he exclaimed, his beard still soggy and his face flushed with sweat. "It's the Wimpy boy! The Wimpy boy! Could I stood it? I say no! Look here, old "Jones Boy" Wimpy! Pooey on you, and on all your nieces and nephews, too!" He sat back down, tired of life, and dreamed of the day when he could poison Wimpy and get a medal from The Mayor. Rough House's fantasy was very similar in nature. Popeye blinked his one good eye and turned back to his plate of spinach and second rate oysters. Wimpy finally sat down, next to Popeye. Popeye was appalled at his rude and belligerent nature. He was going to reform Wimpy if it took him all year. He was Wimpy's only real friend, but but he was going to do his best to keep Wimpy out of trouble for as long as possible. Still, though, he had to admit, Wimpy was incredibly amusing, and practical jokes weren't just Wimpy's forte, he had turned them into an art.

"Lissen here, Wimpy," said Popeye, his pipe still smoking with the remnants of cheap tobacco purchased a few blocks away. "If you kin restrain yerself, we kin go over to Olive's later today- She's goner make a big feast for me- an' I'll tell 'er that yer comin' along, too. Deal?" It probably wouldn't work, but it was a try. Wimpy clutched his chin and thought about the prospect. "Tell me, Popeye, old chum," he muttered, "What, precisely, is going to be at this dinner?" Popeye looked around and coughed. He hadn't expected this. He would have to play it smooth. "Loads of good stuff," he continued. "Loads of good stuff, I sez. A blasted big ol' halibut, an' a huge salad fit fer a dictipator." Wimpy stared at him, aghast, with mock surprise, and pounded his fist upon the table. "Me? Eat vegetables? Why, Popeye, you must be losing your head! I'm a carnivore by nature, you know that- and nothing will satisfy my insides quite like the fortification of a large chopped beef patty- you know, a hamburger." Popeye's gambit hadn't worked, all Popeye could do now was pray. Wimpy was salivating, Popeye could see that, and he didn't like that. Something big was coming.

"I'm not here for hamburgers today, however, I think you'll be glad to know," Wimpy yelled to the whole regular crowd, waving his arms grandly. "As a matter of fact, I've been studying up- on prognostication. I believe that, if I concentrate my mental processes well enough, I can prognosticate with almost complete accuracy." Rough House was intrigued now, this was a new one. He would play along, but he would stay alert. He had to stay alert. "Prosnosticashun?" said Popeye, his face puzzled. "Whatcha talkin' about, Wimpy? Don't use big words when yer around me. I yam bad at vocabularary." Rough House had to intervene. "You know, Popeye," he said. Prognostication. The ability to predict future events. Mighty fancy word, though." Wimpy nodded his head in approval. "Indeed, my good man." Popeye relit his pipe and leaned back. "Oh, I see, Wimpy. Yer sayin' you kin poredictipate the fyoochur, eh? Go ahead, gimme a prognosticatiathion." Wimpy leaned back as well, put his hand on his morbidly obese thigh, and stroked his mustache. He was thinking with incredible rapidity. Popeye wished he had telepathic powers.

"Yes," he said, within roughly five seconds. "I can see it clearly, now. The future, right there, and it will be as I have seen it. I can only predict the future within about two days or so, you know. The near future. Nothing long term. A remarkable power, all the same. Quite impressive. Here's my prediction, Popeye. Rough House, you listen too, as this applies to you. Within the next hour- sometime within the next hour- I will be eating a hamburger. As I saw it, it was a big, juicy hamburger, and I was devouring it, right here, in this cafe. I can only assume, Rough House, that it was one of your famous sumptuous beef bites. I suggest you don't try to defy my prediction." It had come. Why shouldn't it? Rough House was angry now, and when he got angry, he got Rough, as his moniker implied. He dropped the dish he was wiping onto the grimy floor and turned towards Wimpy with an air of defiance. He wasn't going to be swindled by the Jones Boy today. Geezil kept slurping his soup, fully aware of the events at hand. The tension was about to rise. Even Bill Squid's 3 Card Monte game had gone silent.

"Listen to me, you sorry excuse for a human being," said Rough House, his hands hazardously near to Wimpy's soft, flabby throat. "You're not going to get a hamburger out of me again! Never! I don't run this place for bums like you! I'll be darned if you'll get that hamburger ten years from now! But I'll tell you one thing: you won't be getting a hamburger from me, anytime within the next hour- of that you can be sure! Get out of here or I'll throw you out!" Wimpy didn't budge. He wasn't going to, and Rough House wouldn't use violence. He stood firm, full of seething rage and strong willed resolve. Wimpy tipped his derby hat backwards.

"Are you attempting to defy the very will of God?" said Wimpy boldly. "I said that my prediction would come true, Sir, so it will come true. That's all there is to it. You can hold off- but it will happen, that much I can tell you. I'm going to get my hamburger sometime within the next fifty six minutes or so. Look at that clock up there, my good sir. When the long hand touches the twelve, I will have eaten a sumptuous beef patty of some sort, put betwixt two slices of bread, with all conceivable condiments. That's how it will go. There is no stopping it." Rough House picked up the broken dish, threw it into the trash, and stared at Wimpy right in the eyes, in the most uncomfortable way possible. Wimpy's eyes were closed, though, so it didn't matter.

"You've got my goat, Wimpy!" said Rough House. "I'll tell you what. I'm sure that, no matter what, you're not going to get that hamburger- so I'll bet on your lousy prediction. How does ten dollars sound? If I win, you have to give me ten- and if You win, I give you ten. I know I'm going to win, so it'll be easy money. How's that?" Wimpy reached within his pocket. "Sorry, old fellow," he said, "But I don't have ten on me. How about this: If I win, and if I get that hamburger, You'll have to give me two extra hamburgers- and if I don't get the hamburger, I'll wipe dishes for you for the whole rest of the day. Two hamburgers to my service. How does that sound?" Rough House nodded his head in agreement, sure that he couldn't lose. Wimpy folded his arms and looked up at the clock. The battle was on. The crowd waited for the fireworks, hoping to have a good old brawl. All except Geezil, who continued to slurp at his soup and insult the seasoning.

Popeye took Rough House aside where Wimpy couldn't hear them. "Look, Rough House," he said, his pipe still fresh. "I can get that yer a gamblin' man, but I think that this here is risky- I mean, what kin Wimpy do? I say, he's got a big ol' trick up his sleeves- call the bet off, Rough House. He's goner get the hamburger. Ya know he's goner." Rough House raised his hand and glanced away at Wimpy, who was watching the clock with anticipation. "No dice, Popeye," he said, his chef's hat wobbling. "This is going to be easy. There's just no way he could win. How could he? I'm not going to give him a free hamburger and he's agreed to wipe my dishes for free. I could use that. I'll enjoy watching him do some work for once. What a lazy bum." Wimpy was still sitting on the stool, his strategy still a complete mystery. Popeye walked back over to the stool and continued working on his bowl of fresh spinach. Wimpy sat and waited. Rough House kept wiping the dishes. The 3 card Monte kept going, although Bill Squid and his cohorts were careful to make as little noise as possible. The two brawny sailors didn't chat at all.

"Yer gonna lose," Popeye said, with a heavy tone of voice, not looking up from his plate. "Yer goner loose, ya know that, don'tcha? Rough House is smart, Wimpy. I hope yer ready ta give up an' wipe them dishes." Wimpy looked up, his ego damaged. The clock continued to tick, slowly. There were still forty minutes, twenty since Wimpy had made his fatal prediction. "I'm going to win, Popeye," he said. "I'm going to win because I said I'd win. It's just that simple. It will happen. Not too long now." Popeye walked off, thoroughly disgustipated.

The game of sweat and blood continued. Popeye wasn't sure how it would turn out. This incident reminded him of the prizefight between Rough House and Wimpy a few months ago. Now their minds were at battle, though, not their bodies, and they were both prepared to stick it out. Wimpy had an easy life. He had to do nothing, and he got free meals. He was dishonest, though, and that was an undesirable trait. The time marched on.

Twenty minutes. Popeye walked over to Geezil, who had just finished his soup and was now fiddling with his watch. Popeye pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. "Oh, Hello, Popeye," said Geezil, his heavy nazilian accent thoroughly present in his speech. "I almost didn't see you there. How is you doing? What's going over with Mr. Wimpy Boy?" Popeye's face was grim as he informed the shoemaker of Wimpy's solemn vow. "Oh, that's bullhooey," said Geezil, his face bright. "Wimpy can't win, I say. Could I stood it? Rough House is too smart. There will be no hamburgers today for old Mr. Jones Boy Wimpy. Rough House isn't going for it." Popeye still wasn't so sure. There was a surprise coming now. Popeye could feel it in his bones.

Wimpy remained still and quiet, not giving anything away. Only ten minutes, now. Rough House remained stalwart in the corner, sure that the jig was up. Wimpy was going down, and he would have to scrub the dishes until late into the night. What a pleasure that would be. Wimpy kept sitting where he was, loitering, waiting for the moment to come. Popeye looked on in dismay. Rough House, he was almost certain, was going to lose, despite the way things were turning out. Bill Squid once more stopped playing, geezil looked on in amusement with his thumbs crossed, and Rough House's face was just barely covered in tiny drops of sweat. The cafe was still, save for an occasional cough or a sideways glance towards the door. Wimpy was in control now, pulling the strings. They waited and waited. Seven minutes. Wimpy kept sitting, like a goose. Rough House was scared. Wimpy looked at his watch. It was time for the action. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a shiny new dime.

"One hamburger, Rough House," he said. Rough House was silent, and stared at the coin in defeat.

Could he refuse to serve Wimpy? No, he couldn't discriminate, especially if Wimpy was willing to pay for once. He had been a sucker, now he had to go through with this. He took the dime from Wimpy's hand and went back into the kitchen, and decided to fry up all three hamburgers at once. He seethed with anger as he hovered over the hot stove. He should have listened to Popeye. He shouldn't have made a gamble unless Wimpy wasn't involved. He had bet everything and lost. Now he had to pay the price. He added ketchup, mustard, lettuce, two tomatoes, and a pickle to each one, then carried them out on a plate to the king of con jobs himself, rife with irritation and bewilderment. Maybe Wimpy deserved what he got. He certainly went to a lot of trouble to pull these things off.

The crowd burst into laughter and cheers, all except for a few saltwater travelers in one corner, and of course Geezil. Popeye tried to sustain his chuckles, but knew that once this was all over, he was going to scold Wimpy and try once more to show him the error of his ways. Rough House shambled over to Wimpy his head hung in defeat, looking for sympathy. Popeye refused to give him any. He had taken a gambit, and lost at it. He shook his head and put his hand on Rough House's shoulder. "Well, he said, his pipe still jutting out from the corner of his lips, "Ya sure know now that ya shouldn't oughter have bet, don'tcha? Wimpy's too smart for ya, Rough House. Why, ya ain't got no more brains than a lummox! He knows every single trick in the whole blasted book, an' ya jus' can't win against him. I hope you've learnt yer lesson." Rough House listened to the people jeering at him and put his hand on his hip in disgust.

"Can you imagine that?" he said, his face red with embarrassment. "That two-timer cheats me out of not one, but three hamburgers! And he only paid for one! I'd be OK and dandy with that, Popeye, if I was running a coupon deal, but I'm not and I don't like it! I gave him one free one- that canceled his payment out- then I gave him ANOTHER free one, which puts me in the red! I'll never grow out of this, Popeye! He's going to cheat me for every nickel I've got until I die! I just can't take it anymore!" Wimpy strolled over to where they were standing. "You'll note, Rough House," he said, "That I didn't say in my prediction that the hamburger was necessarily going to be free. In addition, I didn't say I was flat broke, only that I didn't have ten dollars. You can understand that, can't you?" Rough House growled and snarled, and Wimpy back away in sheer terror. "GET OUT OF HERE, WIMPY!" he bellowed. "I don't want to see your face around here for the rest of the week!" He beat a hasty retreat, and popeye followed along, curious to see how Wimpy would spend the night.

"Lissen," said Popeye. "I has one more question for ya. How did ya get yer paws on that dime? You ain't had no money for the past year, at least. Ya didn't steal it, did ya, Wimpy? Why, that'd be sumthin' awful! Ya earned it fair and square, didn'tcha?" Their shoes left imprints on the dust they were walking upon. Wimpy turned his head towards Popeye. His face was barely visible in the pale twilight illumination. "Why, of course, Popeye," he said, his eyelids still slammed shut as always. "I earned it by mowing a whole lawn- and knew that I could con Rough House like that. He's always such a gullible fellow. I mowed the house at 54 main Street, as a matter of fact. You can go over there and look at the freshly cut grass if you don't believe me." Popeye said nothing as they trudged along, but caught the aroma of his pipe. It soothed him.

"Ya say ya worked fair to earn that dime?" Wimpy nodded. "But, Wimpy, hard work is against yer whole modus operandus! How could ya work when, usually, ya just walk in there and con Rough House like nobody's bizness? How come?" Wimpy looked up at the stars, then turned to his only loyal friend and stated quite blankly, "I decided to switch things up a bit this time around, Popeye. Besides, I'm willing to do hard work- just so long as I get more than I deserve." Popeye and Wimpy both had a good laugh at this, and they both walked off, into the night, away from the city.


End file.
